


Here Is The Topography of False Starts

by jumpstarts



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-05-28 04:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15040685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpstarts/pseuds/jumpstarts
Summary: On his 30th birthday, Jung Yunho wishes for a miracle. What he gets, instead, is Shim Changmin.





	1. .01

**Author's Note:**

> title inspired by a line from paul guest's 'the report from home'.

 

On his 30th birthday, Jung Yunho wishes for a miracle.

What he gets, instead, is Shim Changmin.

 

.

 

Yunho moves away from memories of mountains and endless fields once he's old enough to earn his own living. It's not as if he dislikes his hometown – it's small and familiar and doesn't ever change. The world does, though, and Yunho wants to see everything while he's still young and courageous and stupid. He buys a one-way flight ticket the day after his birthday and tells his parents about it during dinner, careful to avoid his father's eyes and ignore his mother's downturned lips. Despite their initial disapproval, they send him off and his chest hurts more than he thought it would. His father presses a wad of wrinkled, rubber-banded _won_ s into his clammy palm, calloused hands from years of hard work gripping tight. His mother doesn't cry. Yunho does (but secretly, in the too-tiny bathroom somewhere over the blue blue sea). They write to him once in a while, fingerprints smudging shaky handwriting as they ask if he's doing okay, if he's eating right.

If he's found somewhere better than home.

He answers the first two questions and leaves the last to linger inside his head like a disgruntled ghost.

It's nice to have company, after all.

After his third year of travelling cross-country, surviving on manual labour and part-time gigs and whatever else he can get his hands on, he decides to find a place and stay. At least for a while. The nomadic lifestyle stretches him far and wide, but Yunho soon tires of sending postcards from unfamiliar post offices and updating his address every two months or so. Making new friends all over again, punching in lines upon lines of numbers into his old mobile phone that he’s too sentimental to erase once he packs up and leaves. So he finds a nice, quiet town (his finger lands on a small sliver on the cheap map he'd bought from the local tourist spot, entirely by chance) and spends hours in trains, buses and old, wheezing cars to be deposited to a place not unlike the one he's left behind. Only with less mountains and more river. He tries not to get too homesick and heads for the property office, charms his way into a one-room apartment that overlooks the water.

He goes out and tries to find work before his meagre saving runs out.

The only place hiring is the local noodle house and they barely give him a glance before telling him to come the next day. Which he does and he soon learns to balance five bowls in two hands without spilling soup and getting third degree burns. They make him wash the dishes until his fingers are prune-wrinkled, but he grins and laughs and doesn’t complain. The elderly ladies who frequent the shop make it a habit to pinch his cheeks and anything else they can reach (his ass, more often than not) and their gummy laughter at his embarrassment cheers him up immensely. It’s not too bad, because the owners are nice and he gets free meals twice a day. There are tourists, sometimes, but they often prefer to move on to other towns. Bigger, with flashier attractions. Yunho thinks the singing boatwomen should’ve been enough to make them stay. He likes those girls, with their lilting voices and hands grown thick and rough from handling wooden oars. He sends letters to his parents every month (a fixed return address for once) and becomes friends with the post office’s unofficial mascot dog; an ugly, flea-ridden mutt generous with slobbery kisses.

He likes what he has right now so much that he doesn’t think of moving on, stays after the first year. And the next.

And the next.

 

.

 

On his 30th birthday, Yunho raises his beer to the sky and says, "About time I fall in love, right?"

He might be slightly more than a little drunk.

It's a good thing he doesn't fall into the river when he tries to clamber over his balcony.

 

.

 

Yunho wakes up with a massive hangover, goes about his morning routine like someone has shoved sandpaper all the way down his throat and perforated his large intestines with tiny knives. There's a reason why he doesn’t drink often. His head hurts, everything hurts and even the sun seems more vindictive than usual. On the other hand, he's still in one piece and hasn’t accidentally drowned himself. Small blessings. He shaves and grimaces at his reflection, before realising he doesn't need to be presentable because it's his day off and he's allowed to look like roadkill for once. His living room is well on its way to mirror the deck of a sinking ship and there are empty bottles littering the floor, a few greasy plates on the couch with leftover dinner. He dumps them into a plastic bag, thinks that it’s a whole level of sad to be wasting away his birthday doing chores.

He nearly walks into a human-shaped bundle on his way to the trash heap.

“Wha—”

The bundle unfolds to reveal a man, who looks younger by a couple years but is obviously suffering some kind of difficulty if he decides to lounge around in front of a rickety old building. A beanie is crammed over dark hair and the glasses perched on his nose are a bit askew, probably from being almost bowled over just a few seconds ago. He rights them before peering up at Yunho.

“What.” The man glances around, as if realising for the first time that he's sort of infringing upon private property. He straightens and looks considerably more sober, which isn’t saying much. “Where the fuck is this?"

Yunho smiles, bemused. He relays the name of the small town and the man’s nose scrunches in confusion.

“I’m not in Cheongsapo?”

“Not even close.” Another occupant of the building bustles past them, a middle-aged lady who spares Yunho a quick grin before disappearing down the well-worn path. It’s an inconvenient spot for a conversation. “Are you lost?”

“I guess?” It’s a question and a statement, rolled up in one. “Who are you?”

The question is abrupt, bordering on brusque. Yunho raises an eyebrow. “I live here. Who are _you_?”

"Uh.” A flicker of unease lurks in those dark eyes, before he ducks his head. Nervous fingers grab the beanie and pull it down over his forehead, over two large ears. “I’m just a— someone who ran away from home?"

It’s another one of those question-statement answers and Yunho thinks this is veering too quickly into uncomfortable territory. "You probably shouldn't have done that."

The man shrugs, still fiddling with his beanie. "I know."

Yunho wonders if he's in any position to offer advice, but considering he’s sort of a runaway as well and seems to make pretty questionable life decisions, he's not going to bother. He sidesteps the man and goes to toss the rubbish bags onto a pile of rotting garbage at the side of the building. Returns to find the man sitting exactly where he's left him.

Like an abandoned stray.

Yunho sighs. "Do you even have a place to stay?"

The man mulls over the question. Eventually says, "No."

"If you wanna crash at my place for a few days, I don't mind."

He scowls, looks guarded all of a sudden. Yunho doesn't blame him – there are bad people in this world who prey on the weak and the gullible. And then there are _really_ bad people who have no qualm whatsoever in scooping out someone's internal organs and selling them in the black market. The only reason Yunho puts forth the offer is because he knows what it’s like to live on someone else’s charity. He’s expecting a refusal, would’ve been slightly worried if he gets one, but finds himself surprised when the man gives him a tight-lipped smile.

"Okay. I'm Changmin." He looks at Yunho, as if waiting for recognition. When Yunho simply stares back, Changmin grins and gets to his feet with minimal wobbling. He hefts a backpack that looks new and expensive over his shoulder. There's also a guitar Yunho hasn't noticed and he remembers a friend who used to be a street musician. "Thank you. I really appreciate it."

Yunho nods and gestures him inside. "It’s no big deal. And you can call me Yunho."

 

.

 

Yunho should’ve left him outside.

"You speak funny." Changmin squints at him over a bowl of noodles, steam fogging up his glasses. He takes them off and tucks them into his jacket, makes his eyes look bigger. "Where are you from? Jeolla?"

The table is too cramped with the two of them, cheap wood creaking under the weight of an extra set of bowl, chopsticks and elbows. The entire kitchen feels smaller when he's not the only one inside it and Yunho slurps down half of the content of his bowl before he says, pleasantly, "You can always try to find your way back to Cheongsapo."

"All I'm asking is why you say some weird things." Changmin swallows a spoonful of broth and sputters, inelegant. "Ow, _fuck_."

"Karma is a wonderful thing."

Changmin presses his mouth into a thin, disgruntled line, but he's more careful when he takes his next sip.

Yunho grins into his own searing hot broth.

 

.

 

“You don’t have television? Or a radio?”

Yunho tosses Changmin a pillow and a blanket. His couch is an old piece of shit scavenged from the depths of hell, but it’s the best he can do on short notice and beggars can’t be choosers. “Don’t need them.”

He cracks up when Changmin levels him a wide-eyed, horrified stare.

 


	2. .02

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's always poetry in something that doesn't last.

 

Changmin doesn't stay for just a few days. It's been weeks and he's turned into some sort of a permanent fixture in Yunho's apartment. Living with someone else after being alone for so long gets a bit awkward in the beginning – sometimes he forgets to knock before entering the bathroom, sometimes he cooks for one instead of two – but Changmin makes things easy. He doesn’t require much space and he’s not obnoxious or rude or any of those things that makes people unbearable. He cleans when Yunho goes to work, sits on the balcony for hours with his guitar and does the laundry without being asked. Once in a while, Yunho gets yelled at about wet bathroom floor and toothpastes and multitude other random things that offend Changmin’s apparently delicate sensibilities, so they bicker for hours.

It’s the most fun Yunho’s had in years.

He comes home, slips out of his shoes and steps into the living room to see Changmin on the couch. "Why are you still here?"

"Hm?" Changmin runs his thumb over the guitar strings, doesn't look up. There's a composition book on his knee and he scribbles on it, tiny squiggly things Yunho can't read. He doesn’t look up when Yunho ruffles his hair on the way to the kitchen, but his voice carries over. "What do you mean? Are you kicking me out?"

“I would’ve kicked you out a long time ago if I wanted to.” Yunho starts measuring rice into a pot and moves to the sink, rolling up his sleeves. "It’s just—“ _weird_ , he wants to say. He doesn’t. “Are you searching for something? Someone?"

"Nope."

Yunho rinses the rice once, twice. He pours excess water into small pots of herbs on the window sill that Changmin has taken to growing lately. It takes him awhile to remember the exact rice to water ratio. "Then?"

"I'm still trying to figure things out."

The stove sputters to life after Yunho's second attempt and he turns it down, leaves the rice to cook. He still has some tofu and black beans in the fridge, but they've run out of soy sauce two days ago and he's too tired to go to the store. Maybe they can just eat plain rice with kimchi – he can almost hear Changmin complaining. He can get pretty finicky when it comes to food. Yunho wanders back to the couch and coaxes Changmin to the side, sinking into Changmin’s lap with a sigh. The composition book crinkles unhappily under his head before Changmin tugs it free and places it on Yunho’s chest. He stares up at Changmin’s unshaven jaw. "What does that even mean?"

"Inspiration." Changmin looks down and smiles, fringe obscuring the warm brown of his eyes. He gets like this whenever he talks about music, like an indulgent lover. Sometimes, Yunho catches the wistful, faraway look on Changmin’s face and it makes him wonder what Changmin has left behind. "If I get famous enough, they’ll make a documentary about me. And then, you’re going to have to buy a television for this dump, hyung."

"They make documentaries about serial killers too," Yunho says, chooses to ignore that comment about the apartment. His chest lurches violent at the thought of Changmin leaving, but he should’ve expected it. It’s not like Changmin will stay forever. Musicians are known for being fickle. "You can always start there."

Changmin flicks Yunho’s nose and raises an eyebrow. "Are you volunteering to be the first victim?"

"You gotta murder someone famous," Yunho scoffs, because everyone knows that. He throws an arm over his eyes and murmurs, "They won't care if you hack up a nobody from Gwangju."

There are fingers carding through his hair, lulling him deeper into the welcoming embrace of oblivion. Changmin's voice is soft as he says, "You're not a nobody, hyung."

 

.

 

Yunho finds a covered bowl of tofu stir fry on the kitchenette when he wakes up.

Changmin isn’t in the apartment, but when Yunho looks out of the kitchen window, he sees the other man at the riverside. Laughing at something one of the boatwomen says as they crowd around him, like birds of prey with pretty, multi-coloured plumes and in love with the simple beauty of Changmin’s existence. Changmin’s glasses glint against the setting sun and his cheeks are red. From mirth or embarrassment, Yunho can’t quite tell.   

For the first time in a long while, he thinks about the wish he made on his birthday.

 

.

 

“Did you see my green t-shirt?” Yunho tosses a pair of jeans (not his) into the laundry basket and drags the entire thing to the toilet. The water’s running and soon, he’s elbows deep in suds and scrubbing stains out of a button-down (also not his). He pauses to yell, “I wanna wear it tonight. I’ve got a date.”

Predictably, there’s no answer.

Changmin’s asleep in his bed when comes back from hanging their clothes over the bamboo poles outside and Yunho heaves a sigh. He’s buried in the sheets, dark hair branching over crumpled pillows like he’s taken roots there. Another pillow is in his arms, squeezed almost to the point of disfigurement. He’s also wearing Yunho’s missing shirt, loose on his lankier frame and it feels as if this should’ve meant something. On any other day, Yunho would’ve thought of waking him up. Because that’s _his_ bed and Changmin has no place in it. But he just stands in the doorway, feeling a little lost himself and trying to figure out why Changmin is here when he can be anywhere else in the world.

The world is a large place.

All seven continents and countless countries.   

He wanders over and runs his fingers through Changmin’s hair, haphazardly everywhere. The strands are silken brown, slip through the gaps between his fingers to land on Changmin’s forehead, cheeks. It’s getting too long and his dark root is starting to show. Yunho pats Changmin on the shoulder and straightens, preparing for the inevitability of the couch. Yunho doesn’t think he can make the emotional effort required to puzzle through the ramification of sleeping in the same bed as Changmin and he still needs to send a text to cancel the date. He moves, but before he can go far, Changmin’s hand lashes out from underneath the sheets to latch onto his wrist. The grip is too tight, almost bruising and Changmin’s looking at Yunho through his bangs. There’s a vulnerability there Yunho hasn’t seen before.

That’s the only reason he allows himself to be pulled down into the bed.

“Don’t go,” Changmin mumbles into the pillow. His breath is warm against Yunho’s cheek. He adds, marginally clearer, “Stay.”

Yunho stays.

 

.

 

“Throw another bean at me and I’ll shave your head when you’re sleeping,” Changmin grouses, as Yunho’s well-aimed attack hits him squarely on the nose. His glare reaches glacial proportion. “ _Hyung_.”

Yunho nudges Changmin’s feet under the table and snatches another kidney bean from Changmin’s bowl with his chopsticks.

“Don’t steal my food.”

Changmin’s eyebrows are knitted into something ugly, like the beginning of a tantrum, and laughter bubbles at the back of Yunho’s throat. He points out that since he’s the only one with an actual job between them, the food is technically his and he can do whatever the hell he wants with it. Including pelting Changmin’s face with beans. His smug look doesn’t last because Changmin launches a foot into Yunho’s ankle in retaliation, who understands pain when he earns it.

Yunho pouts and whines and slumps against the chair. “Ow.”

Changmin harrumphs. He’s only ever this grumpy if he’s struggling with a difficult composition, temper fraying around once-smooth edges. “Serves you right.”

But later. When they’re sitting in the balcony, listening to songs floating over the rippling water like paper boats, Changmin grabs Yunho’s foot and quietly circles his fingers around the bruise there. He doesn’t apologise, but his eyes are soft and unguarded, and Yunho looks away before he can say something foolish.

 

.

 

The streets are deserted this late, street lamps spilling sodium-yellow over gravel and half-hearted concrete. Yunho finds Changmin waiting for him at the end of his shift. He doesn’t ask why he’s there and they say goodbye to everyone before heading home, hands full of dumplings and leftover noodles. The night is crisp, moon an almost perfect silver coin and Changmin rolls his eyes when Yunho breaks into a light jog towards an empty playground around the bend of the street. He follows in a more sedate pace, taking his time. The playground’s shrouded in shadows and rusty metal traps, but Yunho’s too old to worry about tetanus shots or ghost stories.

Swings creak when he sits in one of them and wraps his fingers around thick chains.

“Bet I can go higher than you.”

Changmin snorts. He sits on the swing next to Yunho’s and pushes at the ground with his heels, rocking backwards. “Sure. You’re also gonna crack your head open if this old thing gives away.”

Yunho kicks gravel at him and starts swinging, back and forth. He tilts his head and breathes slowly, feels his chest expand and contract with each drag of chilly air into his lungs. The sky out here is better than any cities – he can never remember the names of those constellations, but they’re a comforting constant. “I used to dance.”

“…Dance?”

“I was pretty good back in school. Won some competitions.” It feels like another lifetime, talking about someone who doesn’t exist anymore. Changmin looks surprised and Yunho grins, kicking up more gravel. “If you need an extra backup dancer, you can always call me up.” He turns to Changmin, tries to make it sound more carefree than a pre-emptive goodbye. “Y’know, when you get famous.”

Changmin goes quiet and Yunho worries that maybe he’s said something wrong, if he’s crossed some kind of imaginary line that divide their intertwined worlds. There’s an unnerving stillness in Changmin’s silence and he looks at Yunho like he’s trying to figure things out. It doesn’t seem to take long for him to come to a decision and he stands, pulls at the scarf ( _Yunho’s_ ) around his neck to loosen it. It flaps behind him like wings as he closes in, doesn’t even take more than two steps before he drops to his knees between Yunho’s legs. Changmin’s hands are on his thighs to anchor him in place and Yunho blinks, laughs shakily. He doesn’t push Changmin away.

The world stops breathing around them.

Changmin doesn’t close his eyes when he kisses Yunho. They gleam in the half-dark, like stars.

Like entire imploding galaxies.

 


	3. .03

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are all dreaming different dreams under the same sky.

 

Yunho likes to think that his life is uncomplicated. He keeps to the straight and narrow, goes along with whatever thrown his way because he’s the type to adapt and survive. That’s how it’s been for the past thirty years and he doesn’t expect anything to change. And when Changmin appears, practically slots into his life like a misplaced puzzle piece from another box altogether, Yunho goes along with it. There are questions asked and left unanswered, but he figures they aren’t really important in the long run. He soon becomes used to have someone to come home to, with two sets of everything instead of just one. 

He finds Changmin in his bed more often lately and he accepts that as well.

Changmin doesn’t even attempt to offer any excuse.

Like _your couch sucks_ and _my back hurts_ or _you should treat your guest better, goddamn_.

He does, however, keep kissing Yunho. Soft and sweet, insistent and demanding.

Always hungry.

And Yunho finds himself constantly teetering on the precipice of breathlessness. Constantly wanting, yearning.

They sleep curled up against each other and Yunho makes sure Changmin doesn’t roll off the narrow bed in the middle of the night, keeps an arm around his waist. It helps that Changmin is an incorrigible cuddler, long hands and legs latching onto Yunho in possessive tangles. He murmurs incoherent nothings sometimes, syllables swallowed up by either the pillow or Yunho’s shoulder depending on how much he twists and turns. It’s unfamiliar, should be uncomfortable only that it’s not. He wakes up to Changmin kissing his forehead and eyebrows and mouth and neck and everywhere he can reach, nails leaving half-moon indents on Yunho’s skin.

Yunho doesn’t stop him when Changmin does more than just kiss.

It’s different than the girls Yunho had fumbled with in the past. Changmin is hard and his hands are rough, unhesitant to leave bruises that he mouths at afterwards in a semblance of apology, even if Yunho knows he’s not the least bit apologetic. He grins when he finds ways to make Yunho’s breath hitch and takes his own sweet time learning the crooks and curves of Yunho’s body. Yunho shudders and arches and begs, unfamiliar words tumbling in a desperate litany of wants from his tongue as Changmin looks at him with chipped-glass eyes.

Yunho wakes up late, has to wrestle Changmin off to go to work and daydreams about the way Changmin hovered over him in bed, chest heaving and mouth red and hungry.

He nearly runs into a vat of very hot soup and gets the scolding of his life.

 

.

 

Once he gets off work, Changmin is waiting for him in the threshold of the bedroom.

“Have you eaten?” Yunho asks, stripping off his shirt and already thinking about a shower. His short path to the bathroom is derailed by Changmin’s arms around his waist. He looks down at the fingers laced over his stomach. “Changminnie?”

Changmin’s breath pools between his shoulder blades, but he says nothing, and Yunho inhales sharply when Changmin dips below the drawstring of his pants. The hand is firm and sure and Yunho’s vision goes a shade darker, his legs buckling underneath him. He tries to turn – tries, but fails, because Changmin is holding him tightly, the grip almost painful. There are lips at the curve where neck meets shoulder, a hint of teeth—

—and the axis of Yunho’s world shifts.

 

.

 

“This is the A chord— not like that, you’re pressing too hard— no, that’s not what I showed you earlier, hyung, were you even listening—”

Changmin makes playing guitar look so easy and effortless, but the tips of Yunho’s fingers are starting to hurt and he’s forgotten the difference between the chords after five minutes of aimless strumming. His palm is sweaty where he’s sliding it along the neck of the guitar and he keeps his eyes on the way light reflects against the polished wood. He tries not to think about how he’s sitting between Changmin’s legs, with Changmin’s arms looped around him and Changmin’s chin trenching into his shoulder.

They’re both too tall for this.

Yunho’s heel digs into Changmin’s thigh and he’s never felt more at home.

 

.

 

Yunho should’ve known that nothing in his life is ever simple.

Or easy.

 

.

 

He knocks over Changmin’s backpack as he digs through the closet for extra blankets and winces when he hears something crack upon contact with the floor. The front zipper is a bit loose and he tugs it all the way down, concern replaced by curiosity when a mobile phone tumbles out of the compartment. The phone is switched off, one of the newer, expensive models that has pretty much everything and boasts a sleek exterior encased in a see-through lightweight cover. Yunho has never seen Changmin with the phone before. He’d assumed Changmin doesn’t have one. Against better judgement, he thumbs at the power button and watches the screen boots up.

Yunho nearly drops the phone when it starts vibrating seconds after the home screen comes to life.

The lit screen screams ‘ _Gyeongsu-hyung_ ’.

Heart crawling up to his throat, he shoves the phone back into the bag even as it continues its violent, quiet shaking. Tosses it into the closet and grabs the blankets he needs, trying to silence the voice inside his head that asks questions he doesn’t want answers to. Changmin’s stretched out on the bed (theirs now, never singular anymore), glasses perched on his nose as he flips through a thick manuscript. Something must’ve shown on Yunho’s face because he looks up from the yellowing pages and tilts his head, a question in the gesture.

“What’s wrong?”

Yunho shakes his head, but he’s never been good at lying. So he drops the blankets at the foot of the bed, climbs over Changmin to straddle him and slides the glasses off.

When he slants his mouth over Changmin’s, the smile he finds there makes his chest lurch with guilt.

 

.

 

Yunho decides that he should tell Changmin _I like you. A lot_.

The stew simmers and he stirs in a spoonful of bean paste, mind wandering as he mulls over the decision. It just feels— right. That this is the next step, however small. The herbs of the windowsill are thriving, starting to spill out of their small pots and it reminds him of how long they’ve been together. Changmin’s voice drifts through the opened window, singing a local folk song he must’ve learnt from the boatwomen as he finishes the laundry.

_Tomorrow_ , Yunho thinks. He wipes beads of sweat of his forehead and squints at the clump of chopped up kimchi he’s not sure belongs in the recipe. _I’ll tell him tomorrow._

 

.

 

“Have you seen this person?”

Yunho takes the proffered photo and thinks that the Changmin staring back at him isn't nearly as beautiful as the one inside the kitchen right now, sleep-rumpled and unshaven, but still insists on making breakfast. He wants to say ‘ _no_ ’, maybe close the door and bolt it, but Yunho figures that the police officer standing behind the stranger is not there for decorative purposes. 

“Hyung, who’s at the do—”

The man moves forward like he’s on a warpath and shoves Yunho aside, stepping into the apartment sans permission. The police officer levels Yunho an inscrutable stare.

“Yah, Shim Changmin!”

Changmin stands statue-still, spatula in one hand and eyes catching Yunho’s.

 

.

 

They’re arguing in the balcony, the middle-aged man gesturing expansively in the face of Changmin’s cross-armed, guarded stance. Their voices carry through the closed door, words like _what the fuck were you thinking_ and _this is a violation of your_ _contract_ and _you’re supposed to go on tour this year_ stinging Yunho’s ears. He can't really grasp the enormity of the situation, but he can guess. It seems like Changmin is not the poor, idealistic musician Yunho had understood him to be, that he's important enough for someone to track down the signal from his mobile phone and show up with law enforcement on tow. That this has all been some kind of a self-enforced sabbatical for him.

That Yunho is Changmin's vacation and now he has to return to the real world.

“Hyung, I have to go.”

Yunho doesn't even notice Changmin coming in. He stands by the window, fingers curling and uncurling. His throat hurts. “Are you—”

— _coming back? Will I see you again?  
_

“Don't dawdle. We’re going to miss our flight.” His manager makes an impatient noise, shoving past Yunho again like he's intent on jostling him out of the way. “Do you even know how worried your mother is?”

Changmin’s expression hardens, but he slams his mouth shut at the chastise. He disappears into the bedroom and comes out with his backpack, his guitar case and a sweater Yunho recognises as his.

"Hyung, I have to go," Changmin repeats, even as he's being bodily tugged towards the door. There's a storm in those eyes and Yunho wants to tell him to stay. Yunho wants to say,  _I like you a lot, Changmin-ah._ "Hyung—"

 

 

_"Why are you still here?"_

_"Inspiration. If I get famous enough, they’ll make a documentary about me. And then, you’re going to have to buy a television for this dump, hyung."_

 

 

"... Good luck, Changminnie."

 

.

 

And maybe, maybe there are people who are not made for happy endings.

 


End file.
